


House of the Rising Sun

by WindyRein



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amsterdam, F/M, I don't know how to rate this, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Violence, Mentions real places, Physical Abuse, Prostitution, Twisted Vengeance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-17
Updated: 2012-11-17
Packaged: 2017-11-18 21:50:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/565663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WindyRein/pseuds/WindyRein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bells were tolling, so beautiful. The house was dark, not possible. Something cold and metallic; protection, eh?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. House of the Rising Sun

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this while listening to _Mr. Jones_ by Counting Crows, _Monster_ by Meg  & Dia, _Almost Lover_ by A Fine Frenzy and _The Moonlight Sonata_ by Beethoven. So, if you're one of those people who like to listen to the music something was written to, there you go :)
> 
> Just a couple more things (I'm abbreviating from ff.net :D); I've always wanted to start a story with "Birds were chirping." I love the ambiguousness of the English language. This was supposed to be happy but ended up probably the darkest thing I've written, I wanted it to be darker.

Birds were chirping. The Sun was rising. People had been killed. Mind you, these were people that wouldn’t be missed by anyone. Still, they were lives lost and their fate maybe even more awful than those who would be remembered. For who wanted to be totally forgotten?

There were things said about the city by those who knew nothing, priests, mothers, fathers, even the Pope himself. It was claimed the mouth of Hell, the home of Lucifer and the one to give birth to the sins of the world, the one place to turn sweet girls into dirty sluts and honest boys to criminals. Then there were those who knew better, the ones who lived in the town, the ones who had seen the underbelly of Amsterdam, had been there and knew the sweet girls were raped during their first night and the honest boys killed or blackmailed and threatened into working for someone they would never even know. Those were the ones that had hardened their soul and heart. Those were the ones whose only wish was to get away, maybe to London or Paris or, as silly as it sounded, even to Copenhagen. They were the ones who had learned that caring was not to be had in their home. But they were also the ones that no-one cared about anymore...

He was one of the few, too badly in need of cash, that actually sold his body, didn’t just put it on display for those lowly deprived minds. And it wasn’t like that was enough, no of course not; the money he earned went straight from his hands to his uncle’s. His uncle was a man who liked his pleasures and he didn’t like them cheap. So, of course, it was his fault, if the money wasn’t enough to pay for whatever it was his uncle wanted this time, be it wine, women or live music. Or practically anything else that had anything at all to do with the higher echelons of the city and their parties that were more filled with politics and schemes than the actual House of Parliament was.

But. There were good times, too. There were the times when he could meet the few friends he had made and it was almost like the weight of the world wasn’t on his shoulders and they were just like everyone else, laughing, talking and eating at diners by the canals of the city watching the swans float by like the royalty of birds. But...those times were few and far apart.

It wasn’t really even a surprise to find his first client, if you could call them that, already there when he arrived. _They loved his pure looks._ The first ones were the hardest, each and every time. _They reminded him of what he was, why he was doing it and whose fault it was in the end._ Still he had a job to do and money to earn to indulge a drunken old man. _A man that hadn’t always been like that, a man that had learned the ways of the underworld and now was the master of them._ He wiped his mind clear and smiled at the man in front of him. _So young and nervous and fair-haired, he wondered what had driven him here._ “This your first time, sir?”

He knew something was going to happen the minute he allowed rational thought back into his mind. Tonight had been awful and by the feel of it, it was only going to get worse. It was like a premonition, a feeling that he had learned to trust. It had saved his life on a few occasions. The night had been filled with the lowliest, dirtiest kind of men, and even a few women, those wanting to be raped, those wanting to rape someone, those wanting for him to call them daddy or sister or something else of a deranged nature _he remembered a man that wanted to be called Pope_ and of course those who just wanted to fuck the beautiful, pure-looking boy _so much like a virgin_ into the mattress.

He stayed at the brothel _The Night’s Pleasure_ it was called as long as he could, talking to some of the other workers and even some of their clients, the ones who were there only to watch and maybe touch just a little bit but a snapped comment from his employer had him out the door faster than you could say “Amsterdam’s Red Light District”. He sighed and began the treaded walk to his uncle’s home. A place he couldn’t and especially wouldn’t call a home, not even if his life depended on it, like it had that one time.

He had always liked the city with its lights and canals and almost never-ending nightlife filled with laughter and talk. He smiled at the lovers cooing to each other, whispering sweet nothings to each other’s ears. The giggles from the girls made his heart ache for that kind of purity. The shrieks of laughter from the few children still up at this hour _he smiled a little at them when they ran past him_ made his heart break for the child that died so long ago. His soul had hardened in years long past and the child in him had been lost for eternity, he supposed. All because of one cruel woman and her antics coupled with a horse carriage.

The Dom’s bells were tolling. They sounded so beautiful in the dark night air, like they carried a message of hope from Heaven and the angels laughter could almost be heard...or that’s what he thought. He’d have to get moving, if he wanted to be home for his curfew or his uncle wouldn’t give him enough food, again. The chimes reminded him of his mother but more of his father. His kind father who had only wanted the best for him but had died in an accident that involved a horse carriage and a Portuguese nobleman who had an odd fascination with butterflies for some strange reason.

The house was dark when he arrived and that raised the hairs in the back of his neck. It never was dark. There were always parties going on. It never was. The music was always heard on the streets. It never, ever was dark. The fake laughter of all of those women was the first thing that told him he was nearing his so-called home. He couldn’t fathom a reason for this oddness. _It meant he was in trouble._ He was sure of it, even without any previous instances to convince him of the fact. It was a feeling, an instinct possibly, but it made him sure.

Inside it was even darker than it had seemed from the outside. Inside there was an atmosphere pushing on him, almost making him choke and gasp for air. Too tense, so very tense and without laughter, without music or talk, there wasn’t anyone here, so unlike all the other times, all the balls and parties. But it was too tense for the house to be completely empty. There had to be someone inside, just _had to be_ , be it a corpse or a person. He stumbled through the darkness, too afraid to even call out. Maybe it was a murderer, one of those monsters that killed for cash or opium.

Then a click. _A flickering flame that went out almost as quickly as it was born._ He stopped at the entrance to the sitting room trying to find the source of the noise. _A breath inhaled then let out, smoke carried with it._ Slowly, oh so slowly, he turned and saw the tell-tale signs of a cigarette being smoked in the corner. It wasn’t the heat of the cigarette he feared, it wasn’t the darkness shrouding the room that scared his heart into an endless dash, it was the man swirling wine (only that one bottle had cost two busy days worth) in a crystal glass (his father’s it had been originally) sitting on a comfortable _so fluffy and soft_ (only one time he’d had the permission to sit on it) armchair that gave him the urge to just turn around and flee and never turn back again.

He did the first part of what his instincts told him but then a cold voice stopped him.

“Where do you think you’re going, brat?” It was a voice colder than ice, yet burning with some inner fire. It was a voice reminiscent of his mother’s before she had burned his whole arm with buckets of scalding hot water. That had been when he was five and didn’t know to run away when his mother got that certain glint in her eyes.

He forced a smile to his lips before answering. “I just remembered I forgot something at _Night_ , sir, and thought I’d go get it before it would be a bother to anyone.” 

He was praying to the almighty Lord above that the man would believe him.

A sinister laugh escaped the man. “You can’t lie to me, Allen; I taught you everything you know about deceiving people.”

He wetted his suddenly dry lips. He was trembling. _If I could just get to the door, then I could run. If I’ll get away, I’ll find help._

The man rose from the chair and started walking towards him. He could only stand there, rooted to the spot by his fear and something the man called training. The slap resounded in the silence.

“I’ll repeat and this time, don’t try and lie to me. Where were you going?” The fire was there. He knew he’d see sanity flowing _or was it running_ away from the man’s eyes, if they’d be visible.

“Out.” and it wasn’t even a lie, just the truth twisted a bit to fit his needs.

“Out?” a cocked eyebrow, a smirk and smoke blown out.

“Yes, sir.” he kept telling himself, if he just was polite enough, if he was just submissive enough, then maybe, just maybe the man would leave him be.

“And then what, brat! Run away so you can whore yourself to your heart’s delight and laugh at the thought of your poor uncle withering away in some ditch by the road, eh?”

The man was delusional. It pained him so deeply to admit it but at the moment Cross was so much like his mother had been during her last years. It tore him apart and maybe it was fear for himself, maybe pity for the man but he just couldn’t bear to see it happen again.

So, he did the biggest mistake he could. He turned and started running for the door. And the cackling, the cackling that was meant to be heard from inside the walls of an asylum, not a home, and the cackling was awful and what spurred him into running faster but the door was so far away. How had he gotten so far into the house already?

This wasn’t good, though. He didn’t even want to know what his uncle would come up with when even his mother, who really wasn’t that imaginative of a woman (may her soul rot in Hell) had thought of so many things to torture him with. His uncle had told him a new bedtime story every night, had always come up with a new way to make him believe the boogieman wasn’t real and that his mother wasn’t going to hurt him anymore. His kind, laidback uncle had laughed with him and held him until the tears stopped and everyone had left the grave. His uncle had given him gifts, everything from books to toys and that one time he’d even gotten a real silver crucifix to wear around his neck. _Protection from God, if anyone needs it, you do, kid._ It was so awful to hear that laughter, it was so horrible to think what the man would do to him but most of all it was terrible to think that the kind man he’d known had been destroyed by the death of his father.

“Well, how much did you get this time?” He was left gaping. His uncle just did an almost 180 in his mood, and well, sanity as well. This was a man he could deal with instead of the monster he’d been facing only moments before.

“A bit more than usual, sir.” his voice wasn’t trembling he assured himself; he just wasn’t sure what had happened and that was making it a bit more difficult than usual to catch onto what the man was saying. Yes, that was it.

“Well, hand it over then.” Cross was an impatient man, he should’ve never taken that time to mentally sigh in relief.

He was sure there was a reason for the emptiness of the house, so he (damn, his curiosity, damn it to hell) just had to ask. “Sir, if you don’t mind me asking, why isn’t anyone here?” It never hurt to be polite with his uncle.

He knew he shouldn’t have asked that when the man stopped counting the bills. He swore he could see fire sparking in his uncle’s eyes despite the lack of lighting. 

He could do nothing but gulp.

But it really wasn’t his fault that they always ran out of money!

_He wasn’t sure..._ A punch to his already stinging cheek.

_what happened…_ There was something cold about it.

_He had to get up!_ An almost maniacal laugh: “Where are you running to, little sheep?”

_Hadn’t expected this from Cross…_ He was running, right?

_Maybe from Leverrier or even Link._ Something hard hit him.

_Blood relatives of his mother’s they were._ “Can’t find an escape, can you?”

_Never from Cross, not from his laidback uncle._ He stumbled from the force and fell in the darkness.

_This wasn’t supposed to…his father had…but it wasn’t like it, was it?_ The hard wood forced all air from his lungs.

_He had thought that maybe…just maybe…_ The steps were ominous, echoing in his lightless surroundings

_Just someone to love him._ A kick to the ribs.

_Someone to love._ Being pulled up by his collar.

_A scream from the depths of his soul, LOVE ME!_ A backhand so powerful it threw blood across the glass.

_and that was the irony, right?_ He was in the sitting room again.

_What goes around comes around…_

No-one cared. He knew. They heard but didn’t do anything. Too scared, maybe. Too indifferent, probably. There was blood on the windows, he was sure. No-one saw it, no-one wanted to. This town killed people. This town he loved killed people, made them into shells of their former glory and no-one was safe from it. No-one had the strength. No-one would remember. In a few weeks he would be just a statistic, maybe an urban legend, _not even news-worthy_ , the boy killed by his uncle. The uncle in question maybe in prison, most likely not. Too influential, too powerful, too much in debt to too many interested parties to be any good to anyone dead.

He shouldn’t care anymore, not when there was blissful unconsciousness around the corner. His fingers curled around something cold and metallic… _Protection, wasn’t it?_


	2. News-worthy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we have a series of newspaper clippings... Why? Because Allen said "not even newsworthy" and that kicked something near my sympathy centre or my de-functioning moral fibre and so I made him newsworthy. If you were wondering, my logic astounds me too -.-'
> 
> Also, Jan Willem Brouwersstraat and the Dom are both real places in Amsterdam, a street and a church respectively to be precise. :)

_**BOY BEATEN BY UNCLE** _

_Yesterday a boy of sixteen years of age was found almost beaten to death in a house on Jan Willem Brouwersstraat by a police officer. There were no signs of anyone at the scene. The boy was immediately transported to receive medical care._

_When the house was investigated further, a man of about forty years of age was found. The man was later identified as Cross Marian, the paternal uncle of the boy. He is also the only suspect the police have of the attacker who caused the damage to the victim._

_The hospital’s representative says that the boy, Allen Walker, orphan and son of late Mana & Miriam Walker, is in critical condition but at the moment stabilized and that it isn’t entirely unbelievable for him to recover from his injuries and return to a normal life. This kind of recovery would usually be considered impossible after such trauma but it seems God is watching over young Allen._

_The boy appeared to have been beaten using only hands but there was also evidence that something quite hard had hit him in the back of the head._

_This case will be followed in our newspaper exclusively._

_~_

_**ASSAULT VICTIM LOSING HOPE** _

_Last week we told of a case of abuse that had happened in a house on J.W. Brouwersstraat and its victim, as well as the only suspect._

_The hospital taking care of Mr. Walker has told our newspaper through their representative that Mr. Walker’s condition has been steadily declining for the last three days and that hopes of his survival have dropped significantly._

_~_

_**PHYSICAL ASSAULT ON UNKNOWN MALE**_

_A, for now unidentified, man has been found beaten to a near death state. The man was found by the bishop of Amsterdam lying on the steps of the Dom.  
At the moment there are no suspects according to the police._

_~_

_**OBITUARIES** _

_Allen Walker_

_Date of Birth: December 25th 1887_

_Date of Death: May 5th 1903_

_May Your Soul Find Peace from the Wickedness of this World in the Arms of Our Loving Father._

_Allen’s death left his maternal Uncle Malcolm C. Levrier and his cousin Howard Link grieving._

_The memorial service will be held at the Millennium estate on the 12th of May at 3 o’clock PM._

_~_

_**MAN BEATEN TO DEATH IDENTIFIED** _

_Earlier this week we told of a man found near death on the steps of the Dom._

_The victim has been identified as Cross Marian, the only suspect in the case of Allen Walker._

_Mr. Cross had suffered a severe beating, which, to the amazement of the doctors, didn’t cause his death. The cause was the mysterious lack of the man’s heart. The doctors have no idea how the removal of his heart has been accomplished as there were no physical marks on the outside of the body._

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are much appreciated :)


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